Josh Lyman's Wild Night
by usakeh
Summary: It's three o'clock in the morning and Josh Lyman still hasn't gone home.


I swing my chair around and sigh. It is three o'clock in the morning and I am still sitting in my office. Save for the security guards, I'm probably the only one left in the building. Go figure.

I didn't even have much to do. I've had so little work lately, in fact, that I'm beginning to suspect Leo of trying to lighten up my workload. I've never been particularly thrilled by the idea that I might become someone others would have to make accommodations for. I mean, come on: I'm the White House Deputy Chief of Staff. I can handle anything! Besides, now that Toby's finally gotten rid of those damn Christmas carolers and brass bands, I'm fine. Most of the time, anyway…

I take a deep breath. I am a man of many talents. Unfortunately, emotional honesty is not among them.

"Okay." I'm not sure who I'm speaking to. After the events of the past few weeks, speaking to the wall is no longer sufficient grounds for me to question my sanity. Oh, well. Sanity isn't everything. Not when you're as clever and charming as I am. Right?

"I don't want to go home." Good thing the walls won't remember this conversation. Despite my scintillating insights into my motivations, I can't help noting that I sound more like a petulant child than the savvy political operative I am. "I'd rather sleep in my office." Talking to yourself really does have a rather addictive quality when you're alone in a still, silent room. I should remember that for future reference.

I check my watch again. It is now exactly twenty-three minutes past the hour. I might as well stay, really. So I won't change my clothes. That doesn't matter. I don't smell. I tap my fingers idly on the side of my desk. There's no way I'm going back now. It might not take more than ten minutes to get back, but those are ten minutes that could be better spent doing something more productive, like sitting here and staring blankly at my screensaver. After all, I distinctly remember that Stanley told me to try and concentrate on things like that. Apparently, repetitive patterns are relaxing. I'd never have guessed.

I lean back in my chair. It's comfortable, you know. My bed's been kind of lumpy lately. I'd never get a good night's sleep if I was back there. Here, I might even doze off for a few hours. But, as I've always told Sam, sleep is overrated anyway. I brush my hair back, trying to keep it from frizzing up all over the place. Keeping my hair neat is an art I've yet to master. Oh well. I'm quite confident that my spectacular standardized testing scores are sufficient grounds for most women to overlook it.

Despite the fact that it might seem like I'm too scared to go home, you see, I'm really a very stable sort of guy. I'm confident and content. I turn the chair around again and prop my legs up on the side of my desk. Even a bullet straight to the chest couldn't kill me. I shudder slightly. I'll go into that more some other time. Right now, I'm a bit too preoccupied with pondering what could have ever possessed me to pick out a zigzagged blue and green tie to go with this grey suit. No wonder Donna did a double-take when I stepped into the room this morning…

And don't even try and accuse me of trying to create a diversion here. I'm an expert at creating diversions; it comes with the job description. Properly creating a diversion requires a lot more subtlety than that. I was just being honest. Honestly. It's all about the honesty.

"I've got to get some sleep." The wall is one of the greatest confidants I've ever come across. It certainly gives the best advice. I yawn, pull my feet off the desk, and then get up to turn off the lights. I'm telling you: that chair is just about the most comfortable piece of furniture in this whole place.

I step towards the door, reach towards the light switch–

–and stop. For a minute I'm simply frozen there, staring blankly down the empty hallway. My eyes are wide open, and I'd almost be willing to bet that I'm making the shocked expression Donna claims I get after I've been proven wrong.

A sound is coming down towards me. It's not very loud, but I can hear it quite clearly. There's singing. There's singing and there's a baseline buzzing below it and there's a lead guitar grinding out some stupid melody. There's singing, and there's a baseline, and there's a guitar, and–

"There aren't any sirens!" I pull away from the door. The grin Donna says I get after I've just gotten away with mocking a Republican is probably plastered across my face. "There aren't any sirens!" I don't think it's good for me to be smiling this much. "THERE AREN'T ANY SIRENS!" I walk over to my desk; I walk over to the window; I walk back to the door. Then I step out into the corridor. The song is humming through me, making my heart pulse along with every beat.

It starts with a single snap. I don't usually dance, you see; despite my great abilities in that respect, I prefer to let the lesser mortals monopolize the floor. But this time, I don't even notice before it's too late. It starts with a single snap; before long I'm tapping my feet and waving my arms as the music spirals out towards me. "There aren't any sirens!" I spread my arms out and spin myself around; then, recovering my balance, I tear off my jacket and begin waltzing along the corridor. Too bad nobody's around to witness it, I think. They could really learn a lot from–

"Mr. Lyman?" Did I mention that I really, really, really _hate _unexpected noises? "Mr. Lyman, is everything all right?" What does he mean by that? Of course everything's all right. I was just listening to music and not hearing sirens and dancing around the halls of the West Wing until the watchman had the nerve to call me by name and scare me half to death. I turn around slowly, brushing back my hair and assuming my most impressive manner.

"Everything's fine." I grin and then compose myself once again. I'm the White House Deputy Chief of Staff. I'm not just here dancing around. Well, that is to say…

"Are you sure, sir?" What's with this guy? Doesn't he have anything better to do?

"Yeah." I can't keep the goofy grin off my face! It's really getting rather embarrassing.

"All right." He starts to head for the door again.

"Wait! Can I just say one thing?" The guard stops and turns to face me.

"What is it, sir?" I'm trying to stop tapping my feet. I'm really trying. It's not my fault that this song is this catchy! Taking a deep breath, I pull myself up to my full height. With the serious demeanor that befits one in my important political position, I make my demand.

"Would you turn up the music?"


End file.
